by George Baxt
“Why Joan of Arc?” asked Salka. “Why something so dark and heavy? Greta’s proven in Ninotechka she can play comedy, why not something light and graceful co-starring with Cary Grant or Fred MacMurray? That’s what Greta really needs in a vehicle at this stage of her career. Peter, she’s at a dangerous crossroads and she’s well aware of it. Greta’s no fool. She has no delusions about herself. She’s a complete realist despite the misinterpretations about her.”
“Werner Lieb put it to me this way and you’ll have a few surprises when you read the script.”
“Oh yes?”
“Oh yes. Lieb says what Guiss has in mind is an inspiring and very patriotic film. This Joan is very fresh and sassy. She even tells saucy jokes.”
“Does she die laughing?”
“This is an inspirational Joan. No long-winded speeches about hearing voices. She’s a very democratic young lady out to do battle against the oppressors of her time. I find the script delightful, and I haven’t found many delightful scripts lately.”
“I can’t wait for Greta’s reaction.” Salka got behind the wheel of her car. “I suppose the Dauphin’s part is a very meaty one.”
“Oh it’s delicious. I get to do many wicked things.”
“Who wrote this masterpiece?”
“Something named Gustav Henkel. A very pleasant fellow.”
“Henkel. Sounds German to me.”
“I thought so too, but when I asked him, he said he was Hungarian.”
“You can’t trust Hungarians.”
“Actually, the script does need work. I suggested they get Bertolt Brecht to do a polish on it.”
“Henkel didn’t object at the suggestion of another writer being brought in?”
“Quite the contrary. He seemed quite affable about it.”
“He can’t be a real Hungarian. They are mostly objectionable.”
“Why are you so hard on Hungarians?”
“One of them stole my virginity.” She started the motor, while Lorre refrained from commenting. Petty larceny.
Greta Garbo, from her living room window, had been watching Salka and Lorre deep in conversation. Lottie Lynton entered and asked, “Is there something I can get you? I’ve cleared away the tea things.”
Garbo said huskily, “I wish I could read lips.”
THREE
Chief Inspector Herbert Villon of the Los Angeles Police Department was awaiting the visitor the desk sergeant had just announced. He was reading Louella Parsons’ gossip column in the Hcarst newspaper and frowning. Lolly, as Louella was known to the industry, was taking Greta Garbo severely to task for not contributing to the war effort. Lolly’s rival and archenemy, Hedda Hopper, had beaten her into print that morning by announcing in the riveting prose usually attributed to illiterates that Queen Garbo had been dethroned by the powerful Louis B. Mayer and was now just another unemployed actress. Hedda was a personal toady of Mayer’s, and he gleefully fed her the tidbit of Garbo’s defection.
Mayer had said to her over the phone, “Make it read like no other studio is interested in her.”
“That won’t be easy, Louis,” said Hcdda while examining her reflection in a hand mirror and reappraising a millinery horror positioned atop her head. “Your son-in-law wants her for an adaptation of Robert Hichens’s The Paradine Case."
‘That momser is doing it just to annoy me. With all the eligible men in Hollywood my daughter had to choose to marry David O. Selznick. O for Oy vay.”
“Warner wants her for The Conspirators. ”
‘Too late, I gave them Hedy and it’s a firm deal.”
“Herb Yates at Republic is prepared to offer her Lady from Louisiana opposite John Wayne.”
“Fat chance she’ll do that. He’ll end up with Ona Munson or some other half-baked shipper. ”
“Funny,” said Hopper as she laid the hand mirror on her desk, “I can’t imagine Metro without Garbo. It’s like an opera without arias.”
“I know, I know. But she wouldn’t compromise. She wouldn’t take a cut in salary. She wouldn’t settle for smaller-budget films. That Swedish bitch called my bluff! But just you wait. Shell see what it’s like working for those other bums. She’ll come crawling back.”
“My money’s on Greta.”
Mayer exploded. “I thought you were my friend!”
“I am, Louis, I am. But Greta’s always commanded my respect. She was always kind to me when I was down and almost out.”
“Didn’t I keep you eating with small pans? Didn’t 1?”
“Yes, Louis, yes, as you constantly remind me.”
“Be a good girl, now. Let her have it with both barrels.”
“Yes, Louis.”
What emerged from Hopper’s typewriter was a tad more merciful then Mayer demanded, yet it was still painful to read. But Parsons let go with a full salvo, forgetting that Garbo was one of Marion Davies’s personal favorites, and Davies was her boss’s mistress. Later, when both Hearst and Davies admonished her severely. Parsons took the reprimands bravely, which didn’t prevent her from taking occasional potshots at Garbo in the future.
Chief Inspector Villon threw the newspaper in the wastepaper basket as his visitor knocked lightly on his door.
“Come on in!” shouted Villon.
The man who entered was tall, blond and thirtyish, with a strong face. His smile was almost shy and boyish. He shut the door and crossed to Villon, who had stood up to greet him, with his hand extended. “Arnold Lake, sorry I’m late.”
“Sit down, Arnold.” They both sat. “When’d you get in?”
“After lunch. The train was six hours late. We kept being shunted onto sidelines to let troop trains go through. They warned me when I left D.C. the trip would be no picnic.”
“Couldn’t you hitchhike a ride on an army plane?”
“The brass don’t like that. Everybody’s overheated with spy fever. You’re not a spy, are you?”
“No, I’m just a movie-struck cop. Did you read Louella Parsons today?”
“No, I use her paper to wrap up my garbage.”
“She attacked Greta Garbo.” It sounded more infamous than the attack on Pearl Harbor.
“Why don’t you punch her in the mouth?” asked Arnold.
“I couldn’t hit a woman.” Then he recognized he was being kidded. He laughed. “You know, living here in L.A., born here, brought up on the movies, it’s like everyone in the industry is an old buddy of mine, whether I’ve met them or not. And I go back to the silents. But Garbo. You don’t attack Garbo. She’s an icon. A goddess. A living legend.” He paused. “I must sound like a movie-struck kid.”
“You sound very refreshing. Anyway, shall we get down to it?” He spread a dossier on the desk. “My credentials.” Villon gave them a cursory examination.
“Fine. So they sent you here to lock horns with Albert Guiss.”
“I always get the fun assignments.”
“Have they any proof he’s working for the Germans?”
“None whatsoever, only a scintilla of a suspicion. I just had a quickie sandwich with one of my associates. You’ll get to meet her eventually.”
“Pretty?”
“Very?”
“Can’t wait.”
“I thought you were married.”
‘It ended due to artistic differences.”
“Anyway, my associate has been tailing a woman named Risa Barron, who’s very close to Guiss.”
“How close is close?”
“Mistress close.”
“That’s close.”
“Last night, she followed her to a house on the beach at Santa Monica. She managed to overhear a plot to do something that might involve your goddess.”
“Garbo?” Villon almost hit high C. “Garbo involved with spies?”
“They’re trying to get Garbo involved. And we don’t know if they’re spies or not. There was a lot of palaver about Joan of Arc and they must have Garbo…”
Villon leaned back in his swivel
chair. “That’s movie talk, Arnold. That’s not spy stuff.”
“Don’t be too quick to dismiss it. The personnel at that meeting were exclusively heavy with foreign accents.”
“So’s every other movie coming out of the studios these days.”
“The meeting was conducted by Albert Guiss.”
“In person?” Villon straightened up.
“It wasn’t a reasonable facsimile. And why conduct a business meeting under cover of darkness in an uninhabited beach house?”
“Can you beat that? Cloak-and-dagger stuff right under my nose. But listen, Guiss is known to be a perfectly normal eccentric.”
“That’s an oxymoron.”
“I don’t care what kind of a moron it is. Guiss has been under suspicion as a Nazi sympathizer from almost the inception of the movement,” Arnold explained, “But nobody’s been able to get the goods on him. He operates through dozens of phony setups and organizations. We think he has a brilliant operation going through which he launders monies into fifth-column hands. We’re positive he was Franco’s angel in Spain but we can’t get the goods on him.”
“And America has welcomed him with open arms.”
“Why not? He has billions invested here. Does the thought give you a chill that he’s probably silent-partnered in any number of defense industries?”
“It'll take months for my spine to thaw.” They were silent for a few seconds. Then Villon continued, “So now he’s going into the movies.”
“That’s right. But we can’t figure out why. This movie he’s involved in is about Joan of Arc.”
“Joan of Arc? Aw, come on now. Ingrid Bergman’s more right for that than Garbo.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on, Arnold. Ingrid’s younger than Garbo, she’s much more right for it.”
“I thought you were a fan of Garbo’s.”
“Oh until death do us part, but much as I love her, one has to be realistic about casting her. She’s just too damn old for the part.”
“Anyway, why argue? Bergman’s under contract to Selznick and she’s hot as a pistol and he’ll never lend her to an independent.”
“Don’t kid yourself. He’s short of cash, I hear, and …” Arnold Lake held up his hands. “What are we arguing about? Who gives a damn who plays Joan? They can give it to Hattie McDaniel for all I care. I’m here to nail Guiss if he needs nailing.”
illon wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I get so heated up about casting. It’s more fun than homicide. Okay, Arnold, so I’m to provide you with a cover. That’s no problem. You’re here on a special assignment working with me. What about your girl?”
“They almost caught her snooping last night. She managed to pry open a window, the better to hear them, but someone wised up to it and gave chase. She eventually ended up in Peter Lorre’s place seeking refuge.”
Villon melted in front of Arnold Lake’s eyes. “Peter Lorre. My hero. Did you see him in his first American movie. Mad Love?" Without waiting for an answer, he was on his feet mimicking Lorre. “ ‘I, a poor peasant who have conquered science,’” his simulation of Lorre’s voice was uncanny, “‘Why can’t I conquer love?’”
“Bravo,” said Arnold softly, wondering if some men wearing white coats were waiting in the corridor.
“I do impersonations occasionally,” said Villon with a slight tinge of red in his cheeks. “So Peter Lorre rescued her.”
“Well, not quite. When Lorre was occupied elsewhere, she high-tailed it out of his place. You see, she suddenly realized that not only was Garbo’s name being noised about at the secret meeting, there was much ado about Peter Lorre.”
Villon’s chin dropped. “Peter Lorre a spy?”
“Why not?” countered Arnold with a sly smile. “It’s perfect casting.”
Garbo walked alone along the beach, a large floppy hat pulled down over her head until the brim obscured her face, her body wrapped in a grey oilskin windbreaker. Seagulls flapped overhead, squawking at her intrusion, and in the distance, a foghorn sent out mournful, depressing signals. If anyone else was about, she was oblivious to his presence, so deeply absorbed was she in her private thoughts.
Joan of Arc.
Peter Lorre.
Albert Guiss.
Erich von Stroheim.
Louis B. Mayer.
Salka Viertel.
Quite an impressive assemblage. Of not much box-office value on a movie theater marquee, but with the addition of Greta Garbo, it at least bespoke quality.
I am thirty-seven years old. I own a huge area of this seafront. I own large parcels of land on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I own an estate in Sweden, an apartment in New York. Ha, apartment houses in New York. I own my house here on the beach. I have furs and jewels and stocks and bonds and equities and my health, why shouldn’t I retire from films? Why should I do Joan of Arc? She was probably a lesbian, and there’s enough innuendo in my life about lesbianism. But still, can I retire with that dreadful Two-Faced Woman as the final film by which I’m to be remembered? Have they forgotten my Camille, my Ninotchka, my Anna Karenina? Some say it is tragic I have never been given an Academy Award, but so what? Luise Rainer won two years in succession, and now no one will hire her—Louis B. Mayer saw to that when she left Metro. And now he seeks to poison me the same way with the help of the gossip columns. Poor Hedda. Louis cracks the whip and Hedda jumps. Poor Lolly, with her uncontrollable bladder and alcoholic husband, who is she to cast the first stone, or even the second stone, or any stone at all?
The sigh she sighed was heavy enough to topple a wall. She took the hat off and stood still, like a lighthouse offering guidance to lost ships, but there were no ships in sight. It was after six in the evening, almost two hours since she’d been with Salka and Peter Lorre, and the curtain of darkness had descended. There were the moon and the stars to guide her back to her house, but where were the moon and the stars to guide her into the future?
In Peter Lorre’s house, the grandfather clock in the downstairs foyer chimed six o’clock. Behind the bar, the actor poured himself a large scotch and water. He guarded his whisky supply zealously now that liquor was in short supply. He crossed the room to his favorite chair, intending to reread the script of Joan the Magnificent (as it had recently been retitled), when the doorbell rang. He muttered an oath, placed his drink on an end table and went to the front door. The door was covered with a heavy black drape to conform with the blackout law. He moved the drape aside a bit and then opened the door a crack. He recognized an old friend wearing a black trilby hat and a black velvet cape, presumably designed by a vampire.
“Bela,” said Lorre, “how nice of you to drop by.” Pleasant, but insincere.
“Good evening, Peter,” said Bela Lugosi in his well-oiled Hungarian accent. “I have come to throw myself on your mercy.”
“Come in. Quickly.”
Once inside, Lorre guided Lugosi to the living room where Lorre’s drink awaited him. As he followed in Lorre’s wake, Lugosi said with a sweet smile, “Is it possible I could borrow a cup of cocaine?”
Lorre froze in his tracks. “A cup? That’s a half year’s supply!”
“Cup is merely a metaphor for my distress. I’ve been away on location and in my absence, my supplier was found floating in the ocean off the pier in Venice, a section of clothesline around his neck. Apparently he displeased someone who lacked a sense of humor. My supplier was a very funny man.” He was referring to the Venice community just north of Santa Monica, a hotbed of male body builders who occupied an area dubbed Muscle Beach.
“Have a seat, Bela. Would you like a drink?”
“Some red wine?”
“Of course.” Lorre went to the bar for the drink. “I’m a bit low on my cocaine supply. The war, you know, it makes importing a bit difficult.”
“Yes, I’m well aware. The federals have quadrupled their guard of the Mexican border. Of course, one could always arrange to take a trip down there and bring a good
quantity back, but that’s a risky business.”
“Especially so when you’re foreign born. If you’re caught, you get a fine and a jail sentence. This is followed by deportation, and this is hardly the time to be parcel-posted back to Hungary.”
“No time is the time to be sent back to my native land.” He took the wine from Lorre and sipped. The lascivious look of pleasure on his face had Lorre expecting to hear in the distance the plaintive howling of wolves, Dracula’s Children of the Night. “Delicious. But then, you have always been a connoisseur. But what is this?” He’d espied the Joan the Magnificent script.
Lorre told him about the upcoming production. “They want Garbo to play Joan.”
“Garbo?” Lugosi drew out her name like he was pulling at some chewing gum. “I was with her in Ninotchka. A very charming recluse.” He thought for a moment. “She’s too old to play Joan. They need someone younger, like Jane Withers.” He heard Lorre choking on his drink. “Are you all right?” Lorre sat down, gasping for breath. “Is there something in it for me?”
“As a matter of fact there might be. The part of the jailer. It isn’t big, but it’s showy.”
“It would be nice to be part of a prestige production again. I’m back at Universal.”
“I heard. Congratulations.”
Lugosi shrugged. “It’s a living. I’ll never die a rich man, but still, I can keep up the mortgage payments…”
… And the cocaine payments…”
Lugosi shrugged again. “There are no wars or dropped options in my cocaine dreams. Will you be able to help me out, even a soupçon?”
“I’ll help you, of course. Do you know Erich von Stroheim?”
“Not terribly well. Why?”
“He’s going to direct the film. You’ll need his approval.”
“Why shouldn’t he approve me?”
“Erich is a very strange man. He is pursued by a unique set of grotesque private ghosts. Hard luck favors him.”
“How can you say that when he is signed to direct this million-dollar extravaganza?”